They walked in silence for a moment, Ryszard still consumed by his thoughts. Peter hesitated to break his reverie, but finally ventured to say, “I’m sorry about your son.”
“Yes, so am I. One of those things. I thought I was protecting him, but I called it wrong.” Ryszard paused, then added with some embarrassment, “I guess I never offered you my condolences for . . .”
“No, I don’t think you did,” Peter responded, trying to suppress any bitterness. Why should Ryszard have offered condolences on the death of his sister’s daughter to an outsider? Into the silence of their footsteps he added under his breath, “We fight for our future while losing our children.”
“We are the children. Who among our parents would have thought we would still be fighting this bloody war, even now?”
“Our entire lives,” Peter muttered in sympathetic agreement.
Ryszard shrugged off their morbid commiserations and turned to business. “As you suspected, the Schindler name was not a fake; it was indeed the son of my colleague in Berlin.”
“So it wasn’t official business?”
“I don’t think so. At least not admittedly so. Could be the Führer’s office is trying to secretly resurrect the work done at that laboratory, but wants a handy scapegoat if things go wrong.”
“Or Schindler is doing some independent research.”
“Yes. In any case, I’ve learned that the son left Berlin for London and planned to meet up with a chap who works in that lab near here, the one that your little Underground group was keeping an eye on back in the good old days.”
“Do you want me to contact the English Underground and find out what they know?” Peter asked, doubtful of his chances of success.
“No, I’ve already gone through channels and they don’t know anything. Apparently they never got together a group to replace you and your buddies, and so all they get is intermittent reports from inside there.”
“Hmm. Makes me feel like we were doing something really important,” Peter commented sarcastically.
“I think you were, and besides, I think they realized that as well, but they just couldn’t find the talent to keep up such a close surveillance. Your language fluency, scientific literacy, and cryptanalytic skills were hard to duplicate, not to mention your willingness to work in such danger.”
“They should have thought of that before they used us as bait.”
“Such decisions are rarely made by people who have a genuine grasp of reality,” Ryszard answered quietly. “You guys should have elected your kings, the way we used to, then you wouldn’t have all these messy politics protecting a deposed royal family from adverse publicity.”
“We should have beheaded the lot, if you ask me,” Peter grunted.
Ryszard laughed. “So, you don’t feel loyalty in your blood?”
“Remember, I was in the English Republican Army!” Peter huffed.
“The same one that subordinates itself to the Monarchists?” Ryszard teased.
“Political expediency—you’re familiar with that! Now, do you have any more details?” Peter asked brusquely.
“Yes, Wolf-Dietrich, the son that is, was supposed to meet a fellow named Shantler, but I couldn’t find that name on any employee list. The closest I could find was Chandler.”
“Yeah, that sounds like how they’d mangle it. What’s this Chandler do?”
“Biochemist.” They stopped at the edge of the lake and looked out over its cold, gray waters. After a moment Ryszard continued, “Schindler junior brought along a computer as slick as yours—”
“Ah, that explains Katerina’s command,” Peter interjected. “Did you tell her to order me to bring my computer?”
“Order? No. I asked her to let you bring it. I assumed you’d want it with you.”
“Want it? Hell, no! Do you have any idea how suspicious it is for a normal working stiff to carry something like that around the countryside? I had to cross four internal border checkpoints with that in my luggage!”
“Well, no harm done,” Ryszard commented, unconcerned.
Peter muttered under his breath.
“Anyway,” Ryszard picked up the thread of his story, “he’s supposed to use it to interpret some data. Presumably that device. I assume since you have the same type computer, you can—”
“I don’t,” Peter interrupted.
“What?”
“I don’t have the same type.”
“How do you know, you’ve not even seen his!” Ryszard snapped angrily.
“No, but I know that my computer could not read a microdisc.”
“A what?”
“A microdisc. It’s a device for storing information that’s about the size of that device the American passed on,” Peter explained. “It sounds like that’s what we’re dealing with. A woman I met in the NAU showed me it and the computers that can read it. It’s a new technology, even in America, and my computer is too old and outdated.”
“How old is it?”
“About two years old. They age fast.”
“So you’d need a different computer?”
“No, I’d just need to upgrade what I have: add a bit of hardware, load the software to read it.”
“I don’t speak gibberish,” Ryszard said, clearly irritated.
“The upshot, dear brother-in-law,” Peter explained patiently, “is that, even if we had it, I couldn’t read that device with my computer.”
Ryszard swore under his breath.
“So, I risked my life carrying that machine here for nothing,” Peter added.
“So it would seem,” Ryszard agreed. “Well, maybe we can salvage the situation. I’ll still need your help.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want to go into the lab personally and see what we can find out. I need an excuse, and you’re going to be it.” Ryszard stooped down, picked up a flat stone, and flung it across the water. It skimmed nicely, skipping four times before sinking.
“How so?” Peter asked, picking up a stone and skimming that. Four skips.
“Well, I haven’t a clue about science, but you can pass yourself off as an expert,” Ryszard answered as he cast another stone across the water. Three skips.
“I was an expert, at one point, though now I’d be hard-pressed to know the current state of the art.” Peter took his turn. Five! He grinned at Ryszard. It was like being a boy again, before the epidemic, before private school, back when he was carefree.
“Doesn’t matter,” Ryszard offered dryly, casting about for a worthy stone, “as long as you can spout a few phrases and nod at the appropriate points. I want to bring you in with me as an expert from Berlin. They’ll be obsequious enough that no one will dare notice if you’re not really all that up-to-date.” Ryszard finally found the stone he wanted, and with a flourish he flicked it across the water. Four skips. He muttered to himself and began looking for the next stone.
“And once we’re inside,” Stefan spoke up from behind the two of them, “we’ll get a chance to nose around and find out what the American passed on to them. They themselves might not know its significance.” Stefan had quite clearly removed himself from any competition.
“How do you fit into this?” Peter asked Stefan, flinging another stone across the water. Five again!
“Officially, he’s my aide,” Ryszard answered; he kicked at the gravel with his boot, searching for the perfect stone.
“So you rate an aide now?” Peter asked, waiting for Ryszard.
“I have for years,” Ryszard responded dryly. “Though this is the first time I’ve managed to have one I could trust.” He finally found what he wanted.
“So I’ll be essentially useless to this mission. Just backup,” Stefan explained.
“In fact, I, too, will probably be useless other than as an entróe into the place.” Ryszard squinted across the water. “It will be up to you to ferret out the relevant information. Neither Stefan nor I would have a hope of recognizing important informa
tion even if it was dropped on our heads.”
“So I get to ask questions, nose around, and just see if I can find out what they’re up to?”
“Yes, it’s not ideal, but it’s the best we can do. I can’t find out anything in Berlin, which indicates that it must be important. Other than that, we’re clueless,” Ryszard answered distractedly. He positioned himself carefully, preparing to fling his stone.
“And our excuse for going inside?”
Ryszard finally released his missile. It arched too high but recovered on thefirst bounce and continued to bounce four more times, with the slightest hesitation on the last bounce. “Six!” Ryszard trumpeted. He turned away from the water’s edge and began walking so that Peter had to follow in order to hear him. When they were a safe distance from the bank, Ryszard explained, “I’ve suggested a reorganization of laboratory work, and this is an inspection tour to see what exactly can be moved or consolidated or even abandoned altogether. So, asking questions will seem quite normal.”
“Ah, clever of you,” Peter said quite seriously, though it sounded somewhat sarcastic upon reflection. He was still wondering how in the world Ryszard had counted that last effort as six skips.
Ryszard shrugged. “At the least, I can probably cripple some of their science programs by doing an awful job.”
“But how, without any expertise, did you manage to get this assignment?”
Ryszard laughed. “We’re talking about National Socialist bureaucracy, what does expertise have to do with anything?”
The three men walked along and planned for some time, then before it got so late that Barbara became frantic, Stefan walked Peter back to the car and he was driven back to the shop.
63
IT WAS ODD BEING INSIDE the laboratory that had for so long been a target of his observations. So many hours of his life had been spent acquiring its secrets: purchasing documents, decoding their contents, filtering useless data, analyzing their results. Now, here it was all being presented to him with obsequious smiles and sly glances at his clothing.
Ryszard had forgone his usual nondescript suit and decked himself out well, aware that outside of Berlin and Göringstadt he might not be recognizably important without such plumage. The sharp black uniform with its medallions, ribbons, and insignia had the desired effect, turning heads and opening doors. Peter had chosen to wear something less imposing, hoping that once they had an entróe into the laboratory, he could win some confidences from the personnel by implying his credentials were much less terrifying than Ryszard’s. Nevertheless his boots resounded ominously down the hall as they marched toward their next destination, and he found himself enjoying the sensation of power in the face of his adversaries.
“But what about something truly useful to the Reich?” Ryszard asked petulantly as they viewed yet another work station where the grinning, terrified laboratory technicians ran through their paces like rats in a maze.
The lead chemist was somewhat less intimidated. “All our work is useful, HerrTraugutt. I know that it is difficult for one unfamiliar with the sciences to understand that a great deal of research must go into each discovery before the discovery is made, but that is the way of our craft.”
The director, who had been leading the tour, stiffened at the interruption and eyed his subordinate balefully. Stefan pulled a file out of the case he was carrying and handed it to Ryszard, who perused it as the director blathered patriotic nonsense to try to cover the chemist’s ill-tempered reply.
“Herr Niedermeier—oh, wait, I see here we’ve been misaddressing you. It’s Niedermeier-Jones, isn’t it?” Ryszard asked the chemist snidely. “How did you manage to get such an interesting name? Oh, wait, here it is, your wife’s name is Niedermeier. So, you’re really Herr Jones, or should I say, Mister Jones?”
The chemist’s face reddened to match the color of his sparse hair. “It’s Herr Doktor Jones, if you wish to be pedantic.”
“An interesting bank balance you have here,” Ryszard added, ignoring the reply and continuing to read the document Stefan had handed him.
“My group gets results!” Niedermeier-Jones snapped with angry fear.
“Indeed, many results. Many good results with chemical weapons,” Ryszard acknowledged. “But these bank balances . . . Hmm. I don’t know, I just don’t know, Jones.” Ryszard left the threat hanging in the air. It was a totally unnecessary act and not at all central to their mission, but Peter could see how much Ryszard was enjoying the man’s discomfort. Earlier Ryszard had mentioned that he already planned to shut down this branch of the laboratory because Jones’s group had indeed been producing good results and far too many of them. The fact that he, like most of his colleagues, had been taking his “fair share” of the research money for his personal needs only made Ryszard’s job easier.
“Ah, gentlemen, I’m sure all this will be sorted out in due time. We should be moving on! There is so much to see,” the director insisted before the confrontation could go further and destroy his job.
“Of course,” Ryszard agreed pleasantly. “Now, what about this fellow, Chandler . . .”
“Chandler? Chandler? Who’s he?” the director asked in confusion.
“A subordinate of mine,” Niedermeier-Jones answered irritably. “I see no reason why you’d want to talk with him.”
“No reason?” Ryszard asked, raising an eyebrow. “No reason?” he repeated ominously.
“Herr Traugutt . . . ,” the director wheezed fearfully.
“Herr Traugutt,” Niedermeier-Jones interjected, “I meant no disrespect. I was only surprised that the activities of a subordinate would interest you. He’s not been very productive of late, but I can certainly show you to his laboratory.”
“By all means,” Ryszard replied.
Together they marched down the hall, toward the section containing Chandler’s laboratory. As they passed by a large office containing a typing pool, Peter turned abruptly away from his colleagues and entered the office. He stoodat the entrance scanning each of the women as they worked. The one nearest him looked up and asked, “Can I help you?”
“I thought I saw someone I know,” Peter explained as he struggled to work his way through the myriad faces. During his days in the Underground, at least two of their regular informants had been young women whom he suspected were secretaries. All he knew about either of them was that they sold the information and were therefore involved in espionage for the money rather than any ideology. One, he guessed from the accents, was German, the other English. He tried to remember their faces and mentally added a dozen years to the images; then, as he continued to look, one woman glanced up at him and he recognized her.
“What are you doing?” the director asked, containing his annoyance with some effort.
“Oh, I thought I saw an acquaintance,” Peter explained as he noted the nameplate on the woman’s desk. She was staring at him as if flustered, but when she saw the director, she turned her attention back to the document she was typing.
“And did you?” the director asked. Ryszard and the others stood behind him in the hallway, obviously confused as to why they had retraced their steps.
“No,” Peter sighed. He glanced at the director and winked. “An old flame, you see. I guess it was simply wishful thinking.”
“Ah, yes. Well, if you want to join us now”—the director gestured toward the others—“we can continue.”
“Of course, of course,” Peter agreed cheerfully.
Eventually they reached Chandler’s lab; it was in the old section of the building-—the part that had once been someone’s house. Here there was plaster on the walls, the ceilings were higher, and the windows were the old-fashioned sort that opened up and down. Though Chandler himself was not there, several of his subordinates were. They eagerly explained that their boss was away on business of a nature that they did not know and just as eagerly showed what they were doing. As the subordinates continued their antics, trying to impress Ryszard, Peter paced aro
und the lab benches looking for something of interest. The subordinates were working on trivialities, and their answers to his questions had revealed nothing. As the minutes passed and their enthusiastic demonstrations reached an end, Peter realized that they were going to leave empty-handed. He glanced at the only separate office in the enclosure, taking in the plethora of files littering the floor and the outmoded computer on the desk, then he scanned the layout of the lab benches, and finally he wandered over to the windows to survey the grounds.
Ryszard and the others joined him there. “Shall we go?” Ryszard asked, unable to come up with any further excuses for staying.
“I feel ill, I need some air,” Peter said, and suddenly reached for the window to open it.
“Don’t do that!” one of the lab technicians nearly screamed. As everyone turned to him in surprise, he explained somewhat more calmly, “The windowsare alarmed. If you open one like that, you’ll have a half dozen soldiers running in here, waving their guns at us.”
“Then how do I get air?” Peter rasped.
The other technician answered, “No problem,” and reached over to a small plug that dangled from a wire. The wire led into a soldered seam that ran around the edge of the windowpane, almost like a decoration. “You see, there’s a current around the edge of the window. If the current is disrupted, either by the window being opened or by the glass being shattered, then the alarm sounds. All we have to do is throw this switch over here”—the technician reached under a counter and threw a small switch—“and then unplug the wires here”—he pulled the small plug that led into the soldered wire—“and we can open the window for you.” He finished triumphantly by lifting the window a few inches.
“Thank you,” Peter responded, turning toward the window so he could breathe the fresh air and hide his smile.
64
“WHAT’S UP WITH YOU? You’ve been staring off into space and chewing your knuckles for days!” Barbara sounded exasperated.
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